


you speak dynamic diction and i see right through that too

by blackwood (transjon)



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: M/M, One-sided hate sex, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Fingering, canon typical martin disdain for peter, canon typical peter ignoring martins disdain for him, nipple sucking, trans peter as well but thats less relevant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:50:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjon/pseuds/blackwood
Summary: “You’re very handsome, you know,” Peter says, taking a step forward. It’s a compliment, certainly, but his voice doesn’t sound particularly appreciative or caring. Like he’s reading the weather forecast, more than anything.“Thanks,” Martin says, not bothering to pretend to be affected.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 17
Kudos: 67





	you speak dynamic diction and i see right through that too

**Author's Note:**

> title is from guns + ammunition by july talk!
> 
> martin is trans and his junk is referred to as a) cock; and b) hole. his chest is just referred to as chest. 
> 
> TY to michael McBichael for the Good Talk we had abt trans bear petermartin that def inspired this and also @ jay [gun emoji]

Martin, not for the first time, wonders why he ever decided this was a good idea. 

The office is cool, but not unpleasantly so. That part is fine. It’s late enough that everyone’s already left. That part is also fine. Peter is standing a few meters away, shirtless but otherwise still fully dressed. He’s gorgeous, Martin thinks, and the thought makes him want to bare his teeth and go directly for his jugular. That part isn’t fine. 

It’s true, though – he’s all muscle, even where he looks soft and yielding, broad and tall enough that despite the fact that Martin isn’t exactly small or skinny himself it feels like when he stands next to him he’s looming over him. Martin looks at his chest, broad and and muscular, his surgery scars only barely visible after years and years and years, and he looks at his belly, and his muscular thighs, and his biceps, and thinks _If it was anyone but Peter_ –

It is Peter, though. It’s Peter, and Martin hates him, but he doesn’t, but he _does,_ and he might as well do this. He wants to do this, he guesses, as much as he wants to do anything else – as much as he wants to hurt him, as much as he wants to be hurt, as much as he wants him to do something for _Martin_ for once, and it’s –

It’s Peter. Martin doesn’t know if that makes this better or worse, suddenly. It just _makes_ it. He’s already decided this is a good idea, or if not a _good_ idea then at least an _idea_. 

Martin takes off his shirt, and then after a second of thinking he wrestles himself out of his binder – still pretty new, the elastic tight and unforgiving, not yet stretched out by the washer and use – as well and chucks it across the room. Peter’s eyes scan over him like he’s a scientist observing an interesting experiment. Martin lets his arms fall to his sides and fixes his posture. He thinks the face he’s making is probably sufficiently uncaring. 

“You’re very handsome, you know,” Peter says, taking a step forward. It’s a compliment, certainly, but his voice doesn’t sound particularly appreciative or caring. Like he’s reading the weather forecast, more than anything.

“Thanks,” Martin says, not bothering to pretend to be affected. Peter pays it no mind. He’s approaching still, and Martin doesn’t step away when his skin brushes against Martin’s, cool and rough, the hair of his chest and belly tickling his skin. 

“Can I touch you?” he asks. 

“Considerate,” Martin says, and then “sure” when Peter raises an eyebrow expectantly. He leaves the “that’s what we’re here for, right?” implied. 

His hands are cool against his overheating skin when he does touch him, and Martin jumps a little when they land on his waist, move up his ribcage, and settle on the sides of his chest. “Can I touch your chest?” he asks.

“Stop asking me questions,” Martin snaps. “I’m giving you a blanket permission to just do whatever you like. I’ll tell you if I don’t like something, alright?”

Peter raises an eyebrow again, this time in amusement. “Fine. Suit yourself,” he says, and then he moves one hand to the side until he has one big hand gently cupped over him. Martin shivers. Just a little bit. Just lightly. Peter moves his hand over it like he’s testing the weight of it, the shape and the size of it in his hand. 

“Soft,” he notes, gently squishing down and against Martin’s chest. 

“Well, yeah,” Martin spits out, not entirely unlike an angry cat. Peter does not react with any visible emotion, but he does move his hand, palm cupping his nipple, the rough, callused skin brushing over the sensitive skin. Martin jolts, and Peter smiles. 

“Sensitive,” he notes in the same tone. “How do you feel about getting them sucked?” 

And Martin can pretend he doesn’t care all he wants, but the words coupled with the brush of Peter’s skin against his nipple in a smooth, slow swipe makes a tense ball of heat bloom in his belly hard and abrupt enough that he can feel his cock twitch with it. He does pretend he doesn’t feel the rush of slick that comes with it. Some dignity, at least. 

“Fine,” he says, and the word doesn’t come out as a whine but it’s damn near to it. “It’s fine. I don’t mind it.”

Peter smiles, again, and Martin can see the flash of his canines for just a second before he moves his head down, down, until the tip of his nose touches the middle of his sternum. “Alright,” he says. His voice reverbs through Martin’s chest slightly, and Martin shivers. 

“Should we sit down for this? Or lie down?” he asks right before Peter’s lips make contact with his nipple, and instead of answering he sucks it into his mouth.

Martin doesn’t moan. He doesn’t. Peter doesn’t bother to warm him up to it, or lick him, or tease his nipples, and the feeling is more than Martin had expected – from the gentle flick of a finger to pressure and wet suction – and his breath hitches without his permission, but he doesn’t moan. The hand on the other side of Martin’s chest moves to touch his other nipple, not with any purpose beyond idle touching, and Martin twitches, a whole body thing. 

He knows Peter likes silence. He hadn’t thought he’d achieve it by busying his own mouth. In his rare thoughts of this nature Peter would always make him suck him, or gag him, or just plain tell him to be quiet. Here, in real life, Peter moves his free hand blindly until he finds Martin’s wrist, grabs it, and settles his hand down in his hair. Martin grabs a hold of a handful of silver curls, and when he tugs experimentally Peter sucks harder, and this time Martin _does_ moan. 

“Bastard,” Martin says, voice strangled, “motherfucker.” Peter gives his nipple a hard, aggressive twist with his finger and then he takes his teeth to the one in his mouth, scrapes over it in a way that is both painful and electrifying, and Martin hisses. “Fine,” he grits out. “Be like that.” 

Peter’s mouth detaches from him with a wet pop. “I’m not going to do this if you’re going to be _rude_,” he says. 

“Alright,” Martin says hurriedly. “Fine. I won’t, then.” So much for his dignity.

“Good,” Peter says, and this time he sounds like he really does mean it. “I knew you could be good for me.” 

“Not _for_ you,” Martin mumbles, but Peter either doesn’t hear him or he doesn’t care, because he just leans back in. 

He supposes this works almost as well as making him do something with his mouth, because the wet heat of his mouth around him and the texture of his beard against his skin is making it hard to think. At some point he realizes he feels like he’s floating, and just when he has the thought of _when did that happen?_ Peter’s hand slides down his stomach and under the waistband of his trousers, and just the hint and promise of what he’s going to do is enough for him to clench down, desperate and empty. His hold of Peter’s hair tightens, almost entirely without his conscious input, and then Peter’s pulling his trousers down. 

Martin’s free hand shoots down to help him, suddenly scared he’s going to move the hand he has on his other nipple, and then, almost suddenly, he’s standing there in just his underwear, Peter’s hand hovering over the front of them, soaked through and clinging to him. He can’t see that from this angle, Martin’s pretty sure, but he’s almost certain he can smell him, and when he moves his hand again, his palm closing over him like nothing, he knows he can _feel_ it. Martin bucks into the pressure, all instinct, and for a second he thinks Peter’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves his hand down until the tips of his fingers tease at his hole through his underwear, pressing and prodding through the fabric, until the tips of his fingers just lightly breach him. 

He gasps, and that’s when Peter pulls away. Figures, Martin thinks, that he’d tease him like that, make him think he’s going to actually do something for him and then pull away. Peter pulls his mouth away as well, and Martin whines out loud. 

“Patience. You are so whiny,” Peter says, and then he latches onto his other nipple. Martin wants to protest, but instead what comes out of his mouth is a broken, long whine. Peter switches his hands, the one he’d playing his chest with moving down, and Martin can feel his own slick on his still wet nipple when Peter rubs him again. It should be gross, and it is, a little bit, but it also makes him twitch in his underwear for no reason that he wants to examine right then. 

“Touch me again,” he says, and when Peter doesn’t move he adds a reluctant “please.” He can’t tell for sure but he’s almost certain Peter smiles. His lips are smooth and soft and his mouth is so wet and _warm_, surprisingly so, and the suction is _perfect,_ so goddamn perfect Martin has no idea how he does it, and then he’s fumbling with the waistband of his underwear, and Martin steps out of them as soon as they fall down far enough for him to do so without tripping, and then he’s leaning into Peter’s hand, heavy and eager, head buzzing with it. 

Teeth graze over his nipple again. It just feels good this time. Peter reaches between his thighs with his index and middle finger and Martin spreads his legs eagerly as much as he can. “Please,” he says, breathless. 

Peter takes his time. His fingers slide through the wetness easy and smooth, and Martin tries to grind against his wrist. It earns him another flick of finger to nipple, which in turn makes his hips buck forward instinctively. Peter’s finger’s, thick and long, prod at his hole again, just slightly, not nearly enough to press inside, not as much as Martin wants them to sink in anyway, and his breathing goes shallow. Peter’s tongue flicks against his nipple, and then he drags his fingers up, the slick slide of them easy and _good_, and then he finally, finally touches Martin’s cock. 

“Peter,” he gasps. “Fuck.”

He wonders if he’s ever been touched like this. He wonders if anyone will touch him like this again – this good, this right, this _knowing_ – and then Peter puts his fingers on either side of his cock, knuckle to skin, and jerks him. 

“_Fuck_,” Martin says, and Peter does it again, and again, and then he has a steady rhythm, and Martin gasps and whines and jerks into him. “Fuck me,” Martin manages to gasp out – and he feels so empty suddenly, slick and open and _empty_ – “fuck, _Peter_ –”

Peter pulls away from his nipple with a wet pop once again. “Sure,” he says, “but I need both hands for that.”

“No you don’t,” Martin says. “I can use my own hand.”

Peter makes a face. “Why don’t you use it on your own nipple, then? I really do prefer using both hands to get people off. Much easier. You’d just make it harder.”

Martin gapes at him. “I _doubt_ it’d make it _harder_ for me to get off with my own hand.”

“I didn’t say _for you_,” Peter says, and then he slides his other hand down Martin’s stomach, and before Martin can protest his hand on his cock is moving again, and the other one is snaking its way between his legs, fingertips gently massaging the rim of his hole. “Look, I’ll make it all better,” he says, level, like he’s talking to an unreasonable subordinate, and switches to the other side of his chest, neck straining as he sucks the nipple into his mouth. Martin thinks briefly about him rubbing Martin’s slick into that specific nipple just a while earlier. 

He rolls his nipple between his own fingers. It’s not the same, not even close, but Peter dips his index finger in to the first knuckle, and it’s not really a stretch but it feels good regardless, thick and _present_. He wonders about grinding down, coaxing it into himself properly, but Peter does it for him, his finger sinking in to the third knuckle, easy and slick. Martin has big hands himself, but Peter’s are bigger, he thinks, half-delirious, or it just feels like it because of how desperately hollow he feels. 

“More,” he says, and Peter pulls his finger out, and Martin thinks for a second he’s made a horrible mistake, that he’s going to take his hand away altogether, but he just slides his middle finger in as well, and Martin could _cry._

It is a stretch, this time. He leans forward, heavy, and wishes he was sitting down. His knees feel shaky. Peter wiggles his fingers in as far as they’ll go and Martin clenches around him, hard, when he bottoms out. He’s vaguely aware of Peter switching nipples again. His chest feels sore. He’s not entirely sure if it’s pleasant or not, but when Peter laps at his nipple, beard scratching over the thin skin of his chest his muscles tense and clench, and Peter spreads his fingers inside of him with a wet noise. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. Hardly eloquent, he thinks to himself. Resentment blooms inside of him. He’d been doing so good, earlier. 

Peter pulls his fingers out only to push them back in with his ring finger. He’s not ready for them, but they sink in all the same, slow and stretching. When he gets to the second knuckle he tenses up, the stretch too much, and before he can tell him to stop Peter stills his fingers, and then he pulls them out gently. Martin thinks he’s going to go back to fucking him with just the two, halfway between disappointment and relief, but instead he just swipes his slick fingers over the rim of his hole, and then he sinks them back in. Martin whimpers, but it helps, and when he gingerly grinds down on the fingers they slide in another inch, and then another, until Peter’s up to the third knuckle again. 

It’s a lot. It shouldn’t be, he thinks – it’s just three fingers. It’s just three fingers, but Peter’s fingers are thick and long and Martin feels like every part of him is full, claimed and filled and taken. Peter twists his fingers, knuckles inside of him pressing and then holding themselves there, finding a spot that sends an electric spark through him. At the same time Peter’s fingers on his cock pick up their pace, and Martin’s whole body bucks forward, the hand that used to be in Peter’s hair finding its resting place once again. He tugs on Peter’s hair, hard, and Peter rewards him by scraping his teeth over his nipple only to lick at it with his tongue. Inside of him his fingers spread and meet again, and Martin squirms, helpless and dizzy. His cock throbs, and through it Peter tugs him, relentless and steady. He could stand there for as long as his knees can carry him, he thinks, touched all over, warm and wet and full, engulfed and filled at the same time.

Peter pulls away just a bit, so that instead of sucking he’s just licking at his nipple, and then he kisses it, once, and then he pulls away completely. “Getting there?”

“Yeah,” Martin sighs, no longer angry enough to snap at him. He grinds into Peter’s hands, hand still moving in his hair, half-petting, half-pulling. Peter smirks at him, and for a second Martin thinks he _hates_ him, but then he plunges his pinky finger into him, not even bothering to pull the fingers already in him out for it, and Martin cries out. It doesn’t _hurt_ but it’s a stretch, and when Peter gets it in completely, Martin, to his own surprise, lets out a sob, half of Peter’s hand inside of him. He clenches down, but he’s so stretched it does almost nothing. Peter fucks him, slow and deep, and Martin thinks the only thing preventing him from sinking his whole hand into him and making him just _take_ it in its entirety is the fact that he can’t tuck his thumb in from this angle. 

Peter doesn’t suck him back into his mouth, but he does keep licking – like he’s using it on his cock, like he’s licking into him, pointed and firm and purposeful – and occasionally, when he wants Martin to clench around him, he’ll scrape his teeth over it as well. It’s not more or less nice than the sucking had been, but every scratch and scrape of teeth sparks through his cock, and every twitch of his cock makes Peter jerk him faster, until he’s leaning heavily against Peter, little sounds tumbling out of his mouth while he tries to form them into words without much success.

“Come on,” Peter says, gruff and low, “come for me,” and latches onto Martin’s nipple again, teeth and hollowed cheeks and and all.

“Not _for_ you,” Martin struggles to say through gritted teeth, and then he comes with a high whimper, his entire body seizing up, clenching around Peter long and hard. 

Peter works him through it, and when he finally stops twitching he pulls his hand out. The noise it makes is downright disgusting, Martin thinks. He doesn’t quite blush. He’s not sure his body is yet capable of directing blood up that high again. 

Peter wipes his hands clean in silence as Martin redresses himself in his ruined underwear and trousers. When he looks up in Peter’s direction again he’s standing by the window with his bunched up shirt in his hands.

“Right. Be seeing you,” Peter says, and gives Martin a little wave that would be awkward coming from anyone else. 

“Wait,” Martin starts protesting, “do you not want me to –,” but before he can finish the sentence Peter is gone, the only thing proving he was in the room at all are the fading wisps of mist, and the underwear sticking to Martin’s skin.

**Author's Note:**

> in theory i am on tumblr @ blqckwoods.tumblr.com


End file.
